Thirteen And A Half
by Darth Gilthoron
Summary: When Reuben is threatened, Ocean's team is back in action immediately. So is Terry Benedict. And so is the Night Fox, who is playing a dangerous game this time. Eventually all will have to find out where their loyalties lie...
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

The bay was serene and quiet, the only sound the ceaseless beating of the waves against the sheer cliffs. Across it, along its northern curves, the lights of the sprawling city of Naples twinkled from afar, like diamonds on marine-coloured velvet, climbing up the slopes of Vesuvius, who towered like a silent threat above the bay, the gaping crater cold for many decades now, but for how long? The suburb of Ercolano, but four miles from the crater as the gull flies, was built on lava frozen to solid rock that encased the sunken city of Herculaneum. To the southeast, the ruins of Pompei lay under silver moon and pale stars, a memory of ages long past, a remnant of sudden doom, embedded in a small plain that once again rose up to rocky hills in the south, hills that formed the peninsula of Sorrento with its pale, steep cliffs, and further on the isle of Capri.

A small, dark shape stood on the edge of a cliff, in the shadow of a lemon tree. The faint fragrance carried from the lemon copse behind it on a gentle breeze filled the night air. And yet the figure did not turn to regard it. It was watching the sea beneath it, only occasionally gazing out towards Naples, or towards line of rocky islands leading northwest from the smaller bay of Pozzuoli on, barren Procida and green Ischia. The breeze rustled the leaves above it, but the figure remained where it was, a shadow amid deeper shadows.

After a while a small point of light blinked three times somewhere to the left, along the arm of the cliff. Immediately the small figure raised its hand that was clenched around a thin torch and answered the signal. Then it turned very suddenly and slipped off into the copse, the grass muffling the sound of its feet. Where the first light had flashed, all remained dark now, but after a short while there was a splash at the foot of the cliff, not very loud, but still audible above the sound of the waves. Then the peace of night returned.

Some time later, only a little further to the east, by the side of the dusty Via Sorrentina, a dark open sports car was waiting, half hidden by a curve of the road. From the thicket a small, slim shape emerged, carrying a large bundle over its back. It flicked something, and the lights of the car glowed in response. Hastily the bundle was deposited in the boot, and instead the small figure retrieved from it what looked like a large piece of cloth. Then it weaselled forward, sat down in the passenger seat and waited, watching the road.

Very soon another figure stepped out into the moonlight, equally slender, but a lot taller. Stripped to the waist, the newcomer carried what seemed to be a bundle of clothing in his hand.

Immediately the small figure climbed out of the car again and tossed the dry cloth to the other, who caught it easily and tossed back his own wet bundle in exchange. There were no words spoken. The small figure quickly stored the other bundle in the boot as well while the newcomer hastily rubbed himself dry before throwing the towel into the driver's seat and sitting down in it. His small companion was back on the passenger seat in no time, pulling the door shut behind him, and the car started, driving out onto the road.

After a mile, past the village of Vicolo Equense, the road returned to the shore again and followed its course. There were no other cars to be seen. The dark car travelled fast, following the road for another two and a half miles, until it forked off above another quiet town. The sign by the roadside read Castellammare di Stabia.

The car stopped at a sheltered place beneath a tunnel mouth, its motor fell silent, its lights went out. Then the taller of the two figures got out and rummaged in the boot. Soon he returned with a small box in his hand, climbed back in and pulled the door shut behind him.

And then a clear soprano voice was heard uttering a muffled, yet jubilant sound of joy, speaking for the first time. "We did it, partner!"

"Yes", replied a deeper voice quietly. "We did it."


	2. A Visitor

**1. A Visitor**

Terry Benedict sat back and crossed his arms. "So, what you're meaning to say is, you want to come to an arrangement."

His opposite replied with a curt nod. Judging from his bronze skin and black hair, he might be Mexican, but his English was flawless.

"Without telling me who sent you?"

"Mr Benedict", the man said quietly, his thick black eyebrows meeting above the bridge of his nose, "you would be very ill advised not to accept."

It was hard to ignore the undisguised threat in this, but Terry did, for now. "What's in it for me?"

"Let's see…" The stranger steepled his fingertips. He hasn't even introduced himself, Terry thought grimly. "If you agree, sixteen million, at the very least. If you don't… Well, you might be sharing Tishkoff's fate soon. Or worse."

Terry exhaled slowly, doing his best to exude calmness, while thoughts rushed and chased each other in his mind. "Tishkoff means nothing to me. Why should I bother with him?"

The stranger remained patient, the gaze of his dark eyes never leaving Terry. "Why should you bother with sixteen million dollars?"

Terry was silent for a little while. "Well," he said at last, "What is it you would like me to do, then?"


	3. Plans and Requirements

**2. Plans and Requirements**

A week later, Reuben Tishkoff had a veranda full of guests, who were sipping cool drinks under two large umbrellas while the sun beat down on them.

"What we need", Danny Ocean said, "is to find out exactly who's behind this. Until now it's only speculation."

"Duh", Frank Catton put in from across the table.

"We have a very good chance to do so, though", Danny continued, ignoring him.

Reuben nodded his grey head vigorously, so that his large spectacles almost slipped. "According to Terry, this nameless person will once again make contact during the gaming expo and congress, which leads us to the assumption that whoever is behind this plan to get me out of business will attend."

"I still think Bank is behind it", Turk Malloy put in. "He's the one with the most reason to harm you."

For once, his brother Virgil did not bicker with him, but agreed.

"But you heard the man", Eugene Tarr, better known as Basher, reminded them a little impatiently. "He's not on the guest list." Turning his head to the man leaning against the railing behind him, he wordlessly asked for confirmation.

"True", Terry Benedict answered the unspoken question. Immaculately dressed and exuding smugness as always, he was his arrogant, untrustworthy self alright, and yet he had seemed to remember an old agreement between himself and Reuben. If he felt uncomfortable on Reuben's ground and amid his associates, he did not show it. "Though that doesn't quite put him out of the running. Still, it seems less plausible."

"Yes," Linus Caldwell interjected. "Wouldn't Bank announce himself? Whe he goes to tha congress thing, I mean?" He caught Basher's grin at his awkward wording and smiled apologetically, shrugging.

"Theoretically." Danny replaced his empty glass on the table. "But he wouldn't have to be present. He might as well send his mysterious contact man, and be even more inconspicuous because he wasn't around."

Practically sprawling in his chair, Rusty Ryan shrugged. "All the same, then we find out who his contact is."

"It will be hard to keep that secret", Linus agreed.

"Moreover", Reuben reminded them, "I doubt I have more sworn enemies than I could count on the fingers of one hand."

"Don't be too optimistic", Frank laughed.

But Danny nodded to this. "I'm sure we'll manage to narrow the list down to one name during the expo week, with part of us present and the others out finding out more about those whose names we give them."

Beside him, Saul Bloom shook his bald head morosely. "Bad times", the old man sighed. "In my days, we knew what we were up against. Even the nasty ones had manners and style. This world is seriously going to the dogs."

"Who are you telling?" Basher muttered.

Saul raised his eyebrows. "Have you seen the old days then, young man?"

"No, but even from my point of view it's gotten lousy. Shame, really."

Seated across from him, Livingston Dell wiped the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief and said nothing.

"We do the job that's ahead of us", Rusty put in. "We don't go soft."

"Oh no", Saul agreed gravely. "The first of you who accuses me of going soft –"

"Alright, Saul", Danny interrupted. "Nobody's going to accuse you."

"I do hope so", the old man stated with his chin pushed forward, not noticing how Turk and Virgil exchanged a glance and grinned.

"So," Rusty took over. "The plan is, Terry attends the expo, as is expected of him. So does Danny, disguised as some stuffed-up casino manager." As Basher, Linus and the Malloy twins began to chuckle, he waved them into silence. "The hotel they'll be staying at, the so-called Sunshine Resort, consists of two buildings. One of them is reserved for the participants, whereas the other is still open to anyone, which means we'll be placing a couple of our lot there."

Immediately Saul put up a hand. "I volunteer."

"That's what we expected", Danny stated. "Agreed."

"Also", Rusty continued, "most of the grounds, meaning the tennis courts, pools, golf courses and stuff, are open to all guests. Only the congress rooms are reserved for the expo people."

"So we can blend right in", Linus remarked.

"Exactly", Danny confirmed. "And keep an eye on people during their free time."

"And, of course, enjoy ourselves", Basher grinned.

"Do they have manicure?" Frank demanded eagerly.

"No idea", Danny replied, smiling. "Yet it will be of no consequence for both of you, since you'll be on the field staff."

"What? Are you kidding me?" Frank leapt up to his feet. "I'm the gaming expert!"

"Frank, seriously", Reuben put in. "It's getting a bit fishy, you always turning up in all kinds of places where big heists are going to be."

Danny nodded. "Instead, you can do some recon work in those people's casinos. Listen to every rumour there is to be heard, analyse every whisper. I'm sure you'll be more than capable of that."

"I can help him", Turk offered readily. "I can talk to the kitchen staff, over a couple of drinks."

"He'll only mess it up", Virgil called across the table. "Let _me_ get the staff a couple of drinks!"

"Boys", Rusty said hastily before they could start a quarrel yet again, "you can both do some recon work, along with Basher. After all, once we're ready to do our trick, he'll have to know where he's going to work. Right, Bash?"

Basher nodded his consent.

"Now for the hotel crew", Reuben said, rubbing his hands.

"While Danny joins the casino bosses professionally, so to say, a few of us mingle with them on a more, well, private base", Rusty took up the thread again. "Installing cameras will be crucial, of course, so we need Livingston, with Linus and Yen to help him."

The last member of the group who had been silent until now, a small, slim young Chinese man, now raised a heavily bandaged hand and said something in Mandarin.

"Yes, I can see your problem." Rusty sighed. "We just hope there won't be too much climbing to do for you."

Yen muttered something, regarding his hand furiously.

"Saul and I will be pretending to be snobs just happening to stay on the premises", Rusty continued. "Yen is doing his Mr Weng stunt again, with a heavily disguised Reuben as his manager."

This caused some chuckles. "Like Linus last time", Basher grinned.

"Is he doing the brody?" Linus asked, which made the laughter increase.

But Saul frowned. "Are you sure about this? Reuben is the target. How likely is it that he turns up? They'll grow suspicious."

"Have him take his glasses off, and nobody will", Rusty said lightly. "The glasses are the first thing people notice about him."

"Hey!" Reuben protested while the others laughed.

"And Linus and me are hotel staff?" Livingston wanted to know.

Danny nodded. "I've already bribed someone big in the personal resources. Piece of cake, really."

"Isn't it always?" Saul provided wisely.

"So", Rusty said, "any more questions?"

Reuben refilled his glass. "A question to Terry", he said casually. "Have you contacted Toulour already?"

Everybody turned to look at Terry, who shook his head. "As a matter of fact, no."

"No?" Basher repeated, incredulous. "C'mon, man, we know you don't trust us."

Terry smiled slightly. "I don't trust Toulour either."

"Indeed", Saul put in. "He can't be bought because he doesn't need the money. That makes him a suspicious character."

"Is it true he pulled a rather spectacular job in Italy recently?" Reuben interjected. "I think I might have heard a whisper."

"More than one", Rusty said shortly.

"Let's hope he's busy there." Turk discreetly exchanged his empty glass with his brother's almost-empty one and drained it.

"Actually…" Danny began, and all heads turned towards him. "Actually, it might be useful if he turned up. Just think about it", he continued as others began to protest. "Another playboy who feels at home in tennis courts, strutting around in a white Lacoste polo shirt. He'll certainly distract people's eyes from Rusty. From what I've seen when I was doing some location-scanning, most people hanging out on the grounds are fifty or older." He looked at Rusty, who shrugged. "Moreover, we might get him to shadow one of our potential targets and find out more about him. As you said, Saul, he can't be bought, but he's in for the thrill, and his greatest weakness is his ambition. Just imagine the smug sneer on his face if he manages to find out who's behind this before we do – or at least he'd like to imagine that."

There was a moment of silence, then Reuben nodded slowly. "You have your point about the distraction, Danny."

"Besides", Linus suggested, "he might stand in for Yen as far as the climbing is concerned. You said he did that museum wall without a rope or anything, Danny, didn't you?"

Yen grumbled something that did not sound very approving.

"But you said it yourself, you can't do some of your tricks right now", Rusty reminded him. "Alright, boys, I can make contact and see how he's doing. From what I know, it might be in his personal interest to have friends for a little while."

"What do you mean?" Reuben asked, but Rusty had already gotten up. "I have to pick up Isabel, I'll tell you next time."

"Very well", Danny said. "See you, Rusty, and don't get into trouble."

Rusty waved and leapt down over the railing into the front garden.

"Ryan!" Terry called after him. "Tell him that if I find a fourth of those little onyx foxes anywhere on my estates, I'll kill him! With my bare hands!"

Saul chuckled quietly. "A fourth? What a devious little bastard…"

Terry's glare silenced him quickly enough.


	4. Pranks

**3. Pranks**

Isabel rolled her eyes. "Are you sure about this?"

"Positive." Rusty lay stretched out on the bed, his fingers interlaced beneath the back of his head, looking up at the ceiling. His hair was growing a little long once again, he thought, but Isabel liked it that way, so he would let it grow a bit more before getting a haircut once again. A really short haircut… or maybe not. Maybe he would permanently stick with this hairstyle.

On the other hand, though… he looked like he was applying for a post with the Beatles.

However. Isabel liked it.

"Robert… I'll be coming with you this time."

"It's not your fight," Rusty said flatly.

"Yes it is!" she protested, and he sat up in surprise at the intensity of her reaction. "When you're involved, it is! And I won't let you keep me away again!"

"Easy, easy," he tried to soothe her, but stopped when she scowled at him. "Now look, when you're thinking of getting Toulour back in the name of your father –"

"It was really nasty of him," she interrupted, "but that doesn't mean he's my business in any way."

"Really?" Rusty raised his eyebrows at his girlfriend. "Your father's involved, so you could reason it's your fight, if you want to call it thus. You just said that about me."

"Come on off it. It's my own problem."

"Yeah? And I'm not entitled to have my own problems anymore? Why don't you invite Toulour over for tea and tell him you'd like to whack him around the head or something?" Rusty teased her. "_Then_ it would be a problem entirely of your own, and just you and him. Or you two could go and play paintball, that's a wonderful idea of getting rid of your aggression, don't you think?"

At first Isabel placed her fists on her hips and raised her chin aggressively, but then she let them sink again and sighed. "Look, let me just have a word with him…"

"Isabel." Rusty tried to sound as reasonable as possible. "You must admit that your father seriously screwed the man when we were having the competition. Moreover, your father is the best thief there is. He can deal with that problem himself. And besides, Toulour is a prankster. I'm sure he'll give it back eventually."

Isabel shrugged, clearly not satisfied. "Fine, if you think so… but be so kind and mention it. That really wasn't nice, filching the Fabergé egg from my father."

"Ah, that's the young generation that follows the old gentlemen," Rusty said wisely. "No fucking respect for anyone."

What he had meant to achieve really happened: Isabel laughed out loud. "Are you talking about yourself or what?"

"That's possible, of course." Rusty lay back once more. "What do you think, should I ring the old boy up in the middle of the night?"

"Do you expect him to be cooperative then?" Isabel sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. She looked lovely in her thin, slightly lacy white summer nightshirt.

"I might just accidentally have forgotten that it's a lot later than here, over in Europe."

"I doubt that'd help you. Really."

"But it'd be a nice prank," Rusty pointed out. "He did that to Danny once."

"Oh yes, you told me. Just the night before you all were arrested." Isabel tousled Rusty's hair. Ever since he had started growing it at her insistence, she did that a lot more often, and he appreciated it. "We had better get some sleep now, don't you think?"

Rusty considered it briefly, and decided this might just contain a few offers he could not possibly resist.

Though on the other hand… "Just a moment. I'd _really_ like to speak to that arrogant snotrag first." Grinning hugely, he sat up and reached for his mobile phone.


	5. Allies for now

**4. Allies for now**

A few days later, Rusty found himself sitting on yet another terrace in the sun, only this time it was overlooking a quiet lake, and his company was considerably smaller. Apart from him, there were only Linus, Frank and Saul, seated in surprisingly comfortable wooden chairs and with a low table holding a tempting selection of cool drinks before them.

Also, this was not exactly the house of a friend.

The master of this house sat perched on the white stone balustrade, so that the bright morning sun dyed the sandy-coloured curls on one side of his head golden. Apparently quite perfectly at his ease, he had tucked his dark-tinted, reflecting sunglasses into the breast pocket of his short-sleeved Hawaii shirt, which generously exposed part of his tanned, lightly haired chest. Altogether, he was giving the impression of polite boredom.

This is going quite well, Rusty thought. Aloud, he said, "So, François, it seems you have nothing better to do."

François Toulour shrugged. "Oh, I always find myself something to do. It's not as if I get bored that easily."

Rusty and Saul exchanged a glance, and Rusty remarked, "From what I've heard lately, indeed not."

"The little joke at Sorrento last month? Ah, that. Nothing but a trifle."

"No need to be modest," said Rusty, though he assumed that this was more arrogance than modesty, claiming this spectacular coup had been nothing at all.

"Yes," Linus put in. "It was plain brilliant." Rusty inwardly smiled to himself; he had instructed Linus beforehand, just like Danny had instructed him, that flattery might be very useful here.

"Well, it certainly took some very careful preparation and planning." A dark-haired boy of about ten, maybe eleven, stepped out into the sunlight carrying a tray laden with fruit and biscuits, and while Toulour acknowledged his presence with a nod, he continued speaking as if he were not there at all. "That I'd get in easiest from the cliff was obvious, but planning the route once I got inside was hard, since there was no floor plan or anything to be had, and getting inside under a false pretence was out of the question. Well, obviously I thought of something in the end."

"Say," Frank said, with a brief, but suspicious glance at the boy, who was taking longer than necessary to place the tray on the table and was wearing a very ill-concealed smirk, "was this why you went down there in the first place?"

"Not really, but part of it."

"The biannual regatta," the boy provided, his voice a clear child's soprano. "Quite an event."

"Timon," Toulour said, "if you'd just get the cake…"

"Whatever my Master commands," the boy pronounced with mock pompousness, and thrusting his hands into the pockets of his maroon-coloured shorts, he went back into the house, yet he did not hurry at all.

Linus was wearing an expression of utmost astonishment, and Saul and Frank exchanged a glance of mild bafflement. Only Rusty did not show his initial surprise. "That one's not a servant, eh?"

"My skipper for the regatta," Toulour answered shortly. "Remarkable talent."

"And… you use him here?" Frank asked, already chewing on a slice of ananas, heedless of the juice dribbling down his chin.

"I found him at Hamburg in April and took him along."

It appeared to Rusty that Toulour was purposefully avoiding the true meaning of Frank's question. "And I doubt it was out of charity," he remarked. Well, no matter what the boy's real use was, it was not important for now, and if it should become so later on, they would doubtlessly find out. "So, François, have you made up your mind yet? We've made our offer. Equal share in winnings and glory. I know, the Night Fox works alone, but it's very useful to be known to have contacts."

Toulour laughed. "You think I need protection?"

"No. I just think branching out is useful in our metier."

Saul smiled at this, but said nothing, and Linus and Frank remained silent as well, watching them. There was a definite hint of tension in the air, Rusty thought. Toulour was seemingly at his ease, and Rusty was doing his best to give just the same impression, which was working well, no doubt, but still, it was there.

"How about women?"

For a moment even Rusty was startled, then he shrugged. "Well, I'm sure you can find yourself a girl there quite easily."

"If you're not too choosy," Frank muttered and bit a large chunk out of a slice of melon.

Rusty reached for a handful of chocolate-covered biscuits and decided not to let Toulour get too close to Isabel, if he could help it. Personally, he would not categorise him as overly attractive, but he knew how different women's taste could be, and as long as he had not heard from Isabel that she found Toulour frighteningly ugly, he would be careful.

This is silly jealousy, he scolded himself. Isabel doesn't like him anyway.

Yes, but she has never met him yet, or has she?

But I think her father has shown her pictures. And she hasn't yet started raving about how incredibly sexy he is or anything.

Well, that's not the kind of thing a woman does in front of her boyfriend, is it now?

Inwardly rolling his eyes at his train of thought, Rusty helped himself to a piece of mango on a thin wooden stick.

"To be exact," Toulour elaborated, "I was thinking of a nice alibi, a way of making myself look a bit more respectable. Pretending I have a wife might help, wouldn't it?"

"Guess so," Frank muttered.

Rusty shrugged. "Theoretically, yes. But she'd have to be in on it all, keep that in mind. I doubt you're overly trusting towards anyone, but this might just be pushing it, my friend." Oh come on, he thought, inwardly rolling his eyes, can't the man spend a week or maybe two without a girl in his bed?

Toulour was wearing an incredibly smug expression now. "Don't think I haven't thought of that. What I had in mind was a woman even you would trust, and a woman who certainly knows everything already. Let me think…" He rested his elbow on his knee and his chin in his hand in a mock pose of pondering. "How about a certain Isabel Lahiri, I wonder?"

After a moment of silence, Rusty said, "You're a right devious bastard, you know that?"

"Yes," Toulour answered pleasantly, "I do."

Frank was muttering something unintelligible to himself, while Linus was openly scowling at Toulour, who, of course, appeared quite unabashed.

Saul's eyebrows contracted sharply under the rim of his sun hat. "Now listen here, young man," he spoke up, and there was a tone of indignation in his voice, "you may be of noble birth, but your manner and behaviour is certainly _not_ that of a gentleman. You have broken rules before and shown you're not trustworthy, but this is going even further. It's not only impertinent to the extreme, it's… it's…" He struggled for words, gesturing helplessly. "Highly immoral," he finished. "Indeed."

"Ah, and you're the right one to teach me about morals, Mr Bloom?" There was neither sarcasm nor a steely edge to be heard in Toulour's voice; it sounded like a perfectly innocent question. Even his expression was that of innocence. The man possessed a certain boyish charm, Rusty had to admit, and knew precisely how to employ it.

"I have never fallen so low!" Saul snapped, overriding Rusty's attempt at soothing words. "In exchange for your services, you demand to have someone's wife with you every night –"

"Girlfriend, Saul," Rusty interrupted decidedly. "And he didn't exactly –"

"I never asked to spend one single night with her," Toulour answered the accusation calmly. "This is all about pretending."

"He aims to provoke, Saul," Rusty observed. "Don't do him the favour and react to it." Ignoring Saul's indignant snort, he continued, looking directly at Toulour, "For your information, I trust Isabel, and if she wants to do this is her own decision, not mine. However, this is a warning: You love your pranks, we know, but don't let your jester spirit get in the way of this… job. Got it?"

"Calm yourself, Robert. My surroundings usually are playground enough for me, if there are a couple of challenges to keep me occupied. Ah, there you are," he stated, and Rusty turned his head to see the boy – Timon, wasn't it? – return with a large platter of temptingly arranged slices of cake.

The boy took a mock bow, and for a moment Rusty feared he was about to drop the platter. "At your service, Master."

"Say, Timon," Toulour addressed him while he placed his burden on the table, which was rather full now, "what do you think of the Sunshine Resort?"

"The name's plain cheesy," the boy proclaimed immediately, "but the rest sounds brilliant. I checked their homepage, they actually have a wildwater channel thingy connected to the funnily shaped pool with the bridge over it, and there's a miniature golf course, and a climbing wall in the gym, and they have a stable with twelve horses and somewhere you can borrow bikes, and there's a whirlpool and a big slide in the big pool –"

"Alright," Toulour interrupted, half smiling and raising a hand, "that will do."

The boy fell silent, sitting down on the balustrade beside him and watching him with an air of eagerness that could practically be considered breathless anticipation, dangling his sneaker-clad heels against the balustrade restlessly.

"And there's a small casino, too," Linus pointed out. "Low-security, of course." Saul caught his eye, and they exchanged a knowing smile.

"You'll be ball boy at the tennis court, Linus," Frank reminded him. "Or dragging someone's golf wagon."

"Only because you won't even be on the grounds…" Linus grumbled. When he tried the cake, it helped to lighten his mood immediately, though.

"So we're talking business," Toulour said, ignoring Saul, who was still glowering at him. "I don't exactly see the winnings coming my way as yet, but I'm in for the fun, so never mind the winnings. To take up our discussion from before again, I suggest I play the part of some rich snob from the Côte d'Azur who's growing a bit bored there. I'll leave the casino to you lot, since it'll be part of my role to be bored of Monaco, but I'll be at the tennis courts, the pools and the stables. I'd rather leave golf to someone else, since I've always found it a somewhat boring occupation, but I'm sure Benedict will gratefully take that field. He must be quite an enthusiast, from what I've seen the couple of times I've, well, taken a look around at his place." He chuckled dryly. "As for Isabel, my suggestion is, as I said before, that we pretend I have a wife. A married man is so much less suspicious to most than a bachelor, interestingly. In exchange, Robert gets the boy."

"Hang on," Rusty interrupted. "I can follow you so far. I can actually see that you'll make a better respectable snob than me," here he glanced down at his tattooed forearm, which was partially revealed by his rolled-up shirtsleeve, "and I get your point about Isabel. But what with the boy?"

"Your nephew," Toulour explained. "Won a school price for tireless work and outstanding marks, broke some nerdy school record, big deal, and you think he deserves a treat for that. If the stuffed-up lot around you don't take to you, they'll take to the boy. He'll be thirteen next month, but he's small and skinny for his age, so you can easily pretend he's ten, and he's got a skill for charming people out of their wits by playing the cute smart kid. Also, he's good at creating a diversion, and at asking innocent questions."

"So I'll take him swimming and mini-golfing and set him on people, to win their trust or keep them distracted?" Rusty gave the boy a smile, which was answered by a broad grin. "That's certainly clever. Good scheming for someone who usually works alone," he added, remembering his own advice about flattery. Well, it might be worth a try, he thought, chewing on yet another biscuit. But before he agreed to anything, he would make sure Isabel slept in his own room, and the boy in Toulour's.

Toulour acknowledged the compliment with a nod. "I've used both methods before, myself, though I never yet had a woman with me who was overly useful in that aspect."

"Trouble finding the right girl, mate?" Frank put in, half muffled through a mouthful of cake.

"Let's say I haven't yet found the girl who's right for everything." Timon giggled, and Toulour nudged him into silence. "But at least I can provide a useful child decoy."

Saul had never stopped mustering Toulour with utmost suspicion, and now he pointed out, "But he's a mere boy. How can we trust a boy with something like that?"

Rusty pricked up his ears; this was a justified question. A child could be used for certain tasks, of course, but one always had to keep in mind that children often could not keep secrets too well.

"He's not just any boy." Toulour tousled Timon's dark hair fondly. "This is Timon the Monkey, and also the Fox Cub, ever since Sorrento."

"Blimey!" Linus exclaimed, and Rusty could not quite suppress a small smile of amusement at this reaction. "You mean you're training the boy?"

"He was involved in the Sorrento job?" Frank was measuring Timon up critically, and Rusty agreed with what he assumed Frank was thinking right now: In that case, they had noticed that something was out of the ordinary, but they had most likely underestimated the child. Just to be sure, Rusty briefly checked his pockets, but nothing was missing. Well, better overestimate than underestimate someone.

"I helped," the boy said proudly. "When he seduced that girl, I nicked the keys, and I distracted the dog with a super soaker, and since he's a lot heavier than me, he let me climb, well, no, sort of pulled me up on a –"

"That's enough," Toulour interrupted gently, but still his tone made it thoroughly clear that he did not want Timon to share his secrets with others.

"But they're thieves too," Timon protested. "They're something like friends, right?"

"Allies," Toulour corrected. "For now. You'll yet have to learn the difference."

"Don't be too trusting, kid," Rusty agreed. "Especially with people whose names you don't know." Maybe they had not underestimated the boy overmuch, after all. "You employ the art of seduction as more than just a hobby, François? With some… little chemical helpers, by any chance?"

Toulour laughed and shook his head. "When I need it, it usually works well enough without. But I remember an occasion where it would have been really useful."

"We'll have some of that stuff around, just in case," Rusty said. "Because we've heard interesting rumours about one of – ah, never mind for now, we'll come to that later."

"Can the boy really be trusted to keep his mouth shut?" Saul took up the matter from before again, and Frank and Linus nodded to it. "I mean, this is nothing personal," he gave Timon, who was scowling, a brief smile, "but we just heard him. It can happen."

"He was under the misapprehension that thieves who agree to work together for a little while readily share their methods among themselves," Toulour defended him. "This, shall we say, slight naivety, does not extend to any others, and since he is a quick learner, it will not happen again."

"And we don't have to fill him in on anything, right?" Frank pointed out.

It seemed to Rusty that Timon wanted to protest, but Toulour placed a hand on his shoulder, and he shut his mouth again before he had even opened it properly. For a moment, the only sound that filled the air was the unceasing lapping of Lake Como's waves against the shore, and then, far off, the cry of a gull.

"François," Rusty said abruptly, "I'd like to have a word with you in private."

"In private?" Toulour repeated, and Rusty had no doubt his surprise was genuine.

"In private. Just the two of us."

"If you insist." Toulour got up from his place on the wall. "Timon, keep our guests entertained until we get back."

"Yes, Master," Timon pronounced with mock pompousness. "Some more cake, anyone?"

Rusty heard Frank agree enthusiastically as he and Toulour sauntered along the terrace and down the steps to the shore side by side. Toulour led him towards a gravel path that wound its way through the grass and bushes, but turned in the other direction when they reached it, taking Rusty along a path of simple hard-packed dirt that was difficult to spot when one was not looking for it. For several yards they had to tread carefully because of brambles growing across it, hedges rising up on either side of them.

"What's this about?" Toulour asked casually. "The interesting rumours you intended to mention later, or once again Isabel?"

"Both," Rusty admitted, stepping over the last thorny branch winding across the path like a bristling serpent. Over a patch of high, rustling grass, they came to a small bower gently shadowed by wine leaves. "Wow, this looks romantic," he stated. "Is this where you take your unsuspecting pretty prey?"

Toulour grinned lopsidedly. "I thought it might be a good place to discuss Isabel." He motioned for Rusty to step in and followed.

"I just don't want to sit on any surface where you recently got someone laid," Rusty said, mustering the cushioned benches all around the little bower suspiciously.

"In that case, over there will be pretty safe." Toulour gestured to the left.

"Thank you." Rusty took a seat, and Toulour sat down opposite him. "Dare I ask if she was blond or dark?"

"Who, she?" Toulour vaguely gestured to the bench he was sitting on. "Dark. A pretty local girl. Her name's Bianca, if I'm not much mistaken. And she has very deft, skilled fingers." He smiled appreciatively. "But let's get back to business."

"You know," Rusty pointed out, "I resent you calling Isabel business."

"I beg you to differentiate," Toulour said smoothly. "It's not Isabel who's the business. It's us doing business with her."

"Good." Rusty took a bite of the last biscuit remaining to him and continued while chewing, "As I said, I trust her completely. But still, I don't trust _you_."

"I'm not going to try anything with her if she doesn't want to," Toulour interrupted. "I'm not that desperate for affection."

"According to Isabel, you two have never met before," Rusty continued. "It could have been possible, of course, and when I first learned that LeMarc was your mentor, it occurred to me that you and Isabel might know each other – until I remembered that she had not seen her father for a very long time." He only interrupted himself briefly to shove the other half of the biscuit into his mouth. "Otherwise, it would have been logical that the two of you would be closer acquainted. LeMarc's only student, and his only child… You're about the same age even. You could have been like brother and sister, or even childhood sweethearts of sorts…" Rusty chuckled. "So, if I were to ask you now if you had ever seen Isabel –?"

"I've seen pictures. Of the times when she was small."

"I didn't mean that, and you know it."

They faced each other across the narrow space between them, heedless of the summer breeze rustling the dark green leaves around them and above their heads, blue eyes boring into blue eyes. "No, I haven't been following her," Toulour said quietly. "And if you're hoping you can find out something about my current relationship to LeMarc by harping on possible memories of jolly old times, you're mistaken."

Rusty leaned back and sighed. "Suspicious bastard, you." And he had considered this move fairly subtle…

"Let's get to your other topic, then," Toulour suggested. "What was that bit of information you were keeping from me?"

Rusty considered this very briefly. "You said you're in, and you're not backing out?"

"In, and not backing out," Toulour confirmed. "Unless the circumstances that form the base of our agreement change vastly. The legal term would be _clausula__ rebus sic stantibus_, if I'm not much mistaken. Yet from what you said earlier on, I doubt this has even the slightest chance of falling under that category."

Very well… "One of our potential targets is rumoured to have a taste for men at least twenty years younger than he is. If we really have to use a bit of seduction on him, it's going to be one of us."

Toulour raised his eyebrows. If this revelation had been a bombshell to him, he did not show it. "One of us? Why not use that kid, Linus, wasn't it?"

"I wouldn't want him to do it," Rusty said firmly. "He's not quite as hard-nosed yet." Using this expression in context with Linus and seduction made him smile inwardly at a rather recent memory, the memory of their diamond theft. "He doesn't even know about that fact yet. Very few do."

"If you fear for his innocence, how far do you intend to go, then?"

"That's a personal thing, François. For you to decide."

Toulour chuckled, his lips contorted into a small lopsided grin, an expression Rusty had noticed before during their encounter. "You're hoping it's going to be me, eh?"

"I have to admit it," Rusty answered graciously. This all was a game to Toulour, it was very obvious that it was. A new challenge, a welcome entertainment. And for now, Rusty was glad that it was.

"I share your sentiment, only the other way 'round."

"This doesn't surprise me at all," Rusty remarked. Allies on the job, but working alongside each other, rather than together, each useful to the other for as long as it was of use to themselves. Danny had been absolutely right about the distraction… and about putting Toulour to some use in a couple of other fields, perhaps… Rusty decided that he had heard enough for now. Danny's plan would work. "In that case, I think we understand each other."

"As far as it's necessary," Toulour added slyly. "And as far as we want each other to understand."

Rusty nodded. "This, of course, goes without saying, my friend."

They exchanged a smile as they got to their feet once more, ready to rejoin the others, and Rusty was confident that this was going to be another successful coup.


	6. The Cub

**5. The Cub**

His real name was Hans-Peter Neumaier, but those times were over for good. Of course, it still was his name in his passport and all other official documents, but most people he met these days had no idea that this was what he was called. He had chosen a new name for himself and had gladly left his home to start a new life.

To be exact, he had chosen the new name earlier on already. One day on the pier, under a grey sky, sitting on a coiled rope of enormous thickness and watching the boats with a pair of binoculars, dots of white on a dark sea, it had suddenly occurred to him that he could be Timon. And Timon was sitting in the sun, in white trousers, dark blue polo shirt with a white stripe along the collar – a proper sailor shirt –, and a pair of shiny new sneakers, and guarding a polished yacht for his parents – yes, unlike Hans-Peter, Timon had parents, parents who loved him and pampered him, and trusted him with their marvellous yacht. Timon had everything he wanted, but was content to be on the pier, because despite being something like a spoiled child, he was modest in his wishes, he knew what truly mattered… Still it had been Hans-Peter whose hair had been tousled by a sharp, cool breeze and moistened by the first drops of rain, but when he had closed his eyes, it had been Timon, and life had been good. Of course, the tenant of the sailing school, his guardian, had soon enough woken him from his pleasant daydream to send him over to the shipyard, but he could not banish him from his own happy little place forever. Whenever he was alone, Timon came back, and he came to stay.

It had been that same April when François had found him, and when Timon had truly come alive. Well, not exactly the way he had pictured him, but still it had been too good to be true.

As Timon now packed folded-up clothing into his suitcase, he decided that having parents was not exactly necessary when one had a Master. Of course, it was a lovely idea, but he was modest, after all. He would settle with his Master.

At first he had thought François would become a father figure to him, but this was not the case. An elder brother, perhaps, or a friend, but not a father, not the way Timon imagined a father would be. François was just far too playful. He played with everything and laughed everything away. Never before, as long as he could remember, had Timon encountered an adult who was quite like that. Of course he could handle his own affairs, and could do pretty much anything, in Timon's opinion, but all the same Timon found that François was just a big boy really.

Maybe this was why he liked him so much, more than anyone else he had ever met. But then again, of the people he had grown up with, he had never been truly close to anybody. For as long as he could remember, he had been passed along from home to home, from fisherman to ferryman to sailor, until he had come to consider the sea his sole home.

And this, to be honest, had been the hardest good-bye: bidding the North Sea farewell. That he would leave his guardian had not mattered much. The man had been friendly with him, more or less, as long as he had done his work well, but no more. Yet when he had stood on the pier the last time and gazed out over the innumerable waves, when he had realised that he was to leave this shore, one single tear had flowed down over his cheek, strangely warm against the chilly breeze.

But soon he had been looking after François's yacht, the white H-26, preparing it for transport and regatta. He had expected to be appointed spinnaker pole shifter, since he was small and practised in balancing on a slippery foredeck, but François had made him his skipper and had taken on this task himself, arguing that he had longer arms (which was correct, of course, but what good were long arms, Timon thought with amusement, when the man in question got his foot caught in the downhaul somehow at the same time and let go of the lines?). They had not won, but still, fourth place was pretty good… and their night-time burglary adventure had been even better.

And it seemed that there was an equally exciting adventure waiting for him now. Timon checked and double-checked his list of things he had to take along, and although he knew that he had packed or at least prepared everything on the list, he still went through it all again and again. The following morning, they were to take a plane to the United States, where he had never yet been, and he could hardly wait.

"Timon?" François called from somewhere out in the corridor, and at once the boy jumped to his feet and was at the door in two leaps. "As-tu fini faire tes bagages?"

"Almost," the boy replied, poking his head out of the room. "Give me another ten minutes." While he had come to understand a surprising lot of French and also Italian during those months they had known each other, he still preferred to answer in English, since this was the foreign language he was a lot more fluent in. In fact, Timon was proud of his level of English; back at Hamburg, not many boys his age had spoken it as well as he did.

"D'accord." François came strolling towards him in his normal casual saunter. As always, his short-sleeved shirt was partially unbuttoned. "Je crois que…" Here he broke off and then switched into English. "I believe that there is a lot more to this than meets the eye. Ocean, Ryan and their lot are clever, even if some of them don't look like it. You be careful with what you say and do."

"I will," Timon promised. "And thanks for saying that in English."

His mentor gave him a little smile. "I wanted to make sure you understand it. Ai portato la pigiama?"

"La pigiama l'ho portato." At least this was simple Italian.

"Portata."

"What?"

"It's portata, not portato."

"You said portato yourself. Just now."

"Yes, but since it's feminine, it becomes portata due to the syntax."

Timon groaned. "I'll stick with English. Stop confusing me, or I'll only answer in German." Moreover, he was convinced that François had done this on purpose; he did not address him in Italian normally, unless he had just been speaking to one of the Italian-speaking personnel before.

François shrugged. "I daresay I'll understand it, more or less, if you speak clearly and don't use any difficult vocabulary, but I won't be able to answer myself."

"Same as me with French and Italian, then." Thrusting his hands into his pockets, Timon returned to his room. "Can we take a… a… thingy." Sometimes he met his limits in English as well. "Something you blow up."

"Dynamite? T'es dingue?"

"No, duh! A thing you take along on a holiday. Luftmatratze," he prompted, throwing the German term at him. "Like, a mattress filled with air which you take to a pool."

"Ah, un matelas pneumatique. C'est air mattress en Anglais, ou inflatable mattress."

"Yes, right. Can we take it along?"

"Oui, bien sure."

"Thanks."

"Mais il a des trous, je crois."

"What does it have?"

"Holes," François translated.

"You could buy a new one, then," Timon suggested. "After all, I'm to play a spoiled brat, right? I'm supposed to have one."

"Why don't you ask Uncle Robert, eh?"

Timon rolled his eyes. "C'mon, don't pretend you can't afford it. Besides, if you make him buy me stuff, he'll make you buy his girl stuff, and that's bound to be way more expensive."

"Alright, alright," his mentor agreed. "We'll buy one when passing through Chiasso."

"Je t'aime. But why through Chiasso?"

"Because our flight leaves from Kloten, outside Zurich."

"Zürich," Timon corrected smugly. Take this for your Italian trap! "With a soft ch. Work on it."

François ruffled his hair playfully. "Little know-it-all. Now pack your things, and come down when you're done. There is something important I should teach you before we leave."


End file.
